An Irish Intervention
by thehoodedbowlerhat
Summary: Fic from 8x15: "Even now, hating her, hating them, hating the web of lies they always entangled themselves within; his heart burns for her. The same way the whiskey scorches the back of his throat."
Disclaimer: I definitely don't own Castle or any of its characters; credits to the brilliant writers and creators behind this wonderful show.

"Castle. Can you do me a favour."

"Anything."

"Stop talking."

He is right here.

He is right here with her.

Standing less than a feet away from her.

He could have leaned forward, just on the edge of his toes like as if balancing something precarious, and brushed the edge of her forehead with his lips.

He is right here.

And yet, in between of them, he feels it.

He feels the huge, gnawing gap growing. Floor crumbling, bricks stacking. The wall is coming up again, a familiar enemy snaking up her side, clouding over her eyes, sealing over her lips. He hears the thunder growling in the distance, the storm building up across the horizon; inside, his heart is racing, his stomach's a black hole and all he can think is:

 _No. No Kate no. No._

Because four years. It had taken them four years to break down the walls. For him to dig enough tunnels, scale enough fences to fight for the key into her heart, to have her open up to him. To have her trust him.

And now.

The words echo in his ears like a gunshot going off, the bullet ricocheting off all corners of his skull.

 _How did we end up here again? You lie to protect me, I lie to protect you._

She is handing him a drink. A glass of whiskey, lights dancing off its golden surface, twinkling under the moonlight through the windows. Deceiving, how deceiving.

His eyes don't leave hers as they both drink. She looks so calm, her hand steady, her gaze flat and unwavering. He feels the exact opposite, like as if the storm inside of him had just blown into a shrieking hurricane, but he tries to act the same.

Deceiving. How deceiving.

Lying.

Even now, they are still lying.

He downs the drink in one go and the drink burns his throat, bitter and hard. He grimaces and knows that she noticed. The biting of her under lip, the slight nod of her head. Of course she noticed. She could read him like an open book; as he could with her. She reaches for the bottle again, and he lets her pour him another glass.

"So if we're not talking… what are we doing."

It's not a question. It's an observation. A statement. A cry for help. A plea for her to not chase down the dark, dizzying crevices of that had haunted their past so much.

She refills her own glass, and looks up at him.

She doesn't say anything.

They both drink again. They both watch each other in silence.

God, he loves her so much. Even here, standing in silence. Even here, with frustration burning holes in their chests, anger filling up their heads like steam in a boiler, the sickening tug of familiarity at their stomachs.

Even now, hating her, hating them, hating the web of lies they always entangled themselves within, his heart burns for her, the same way the whiskey scorches the back of his throat right now.

And…

And she loves him too.

He realises this with a sickening swoop of his heart, the fingers on his glass almost slipping. They are on their fourth drink now, and they are still standing as they are in the middle of the room, by the doorway, in silence, eyes on one another's.

 _She loves me._

She refills his cup and looks up, and for a moment, he catches the familiar look in her eyes. Blink for a second and you'll miss it, but it's there.

 _She loves me._

The wall isn't coming back up. This isn't the past.

Four years ago, it would have been different. She would have screamed. He would have screamed. She would have spat everything she thought, everything she was so _frustrated_ with, right into his face. And then he would have screamed everything _he_ was _so frustrated_ with right back at her. And then one of them would have stormed out. Both of them would have broken down into pieces the minute they left each other's sights.

 _She loves me._

Maybe it's the drinks, maybe it's the silence. She is still there, lounging against the wall, having her sixth glass, while he has sunk onto the ground, knees hugging against his chest, arms wrapped around his shins, downing his own sixth. Sixth? Seventh? He's lost count.

But whatever it is, there is no question: it is different now.

For one, they are here.

Both of them.

Right here. Not moving. Not storming out.

But right here.

And not just physically. Oh no, not just physically. Years ago, he would have spent almost every day physically with her, and yet still be able to feel apart and isolated.

But now. He can feel her. Right here. With him.

Equally hurt, equally angry. But with him. Holding his hand, even without moving her fingers, holding him in her arms, even without touching him. Talking to him through her eyes, even without opening her mouth. Silently being angry, being hurt. With him. Together.

He watches as she slowly sinks down to her knees, allowing herself to collapse from her cool, uncaring wall-lean, instead, to a tiny bundle on the ground. Sitting with her knees huddled up, arms wrapped around them. Mirroring his own position. Seeing eye to eye with him.

They both take another swig.

For those who said marriage changes nothing, they were wrong.

Marriage changed them. They now… understand. Understand each other more. A lot more.

She can read him like an open book; and he can to her too.

She holds out the bottle. He holds out his glass. They pour the ninth? Tenth? Glass and drink without a word.

 _I would walk into a tornado for you, Kate._

 _And I would die if I lost you._

He looks at her. Words are a blessing to him on most days, a curse to him on the others. He knows, his words are useless, but he tries anyway:

"Kate. I…I-"

A smile blossoms on her face. Wane, her eyes still bitter, but still, a smile. And her smiles are always sincere. She always means them.

"I know."

Her reply startles him. It shouldn't but even after all these years, it still does. And it is comforting.

He loves her. She loves him.

They might be hurt and broken and tangled in lies. They might be silent now, still avoiding the problem between them, still not yet facing what had to be faced. They might have a murderous force coming after them, raising all hell until they are finally killed, twisted and limp in the bloodied hands of their faceless enemy.

But both of them, sitting here, huddled on the ground, facing one another, taking synchronised swigs of drinks.

He loves her. She loves him.

And maybe, he thinks, on some days, that's all he needs.


End file.
